


Fact (or, Fiction)

by lmeden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He’ll only speak to you, sir.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fact (or, Fiction)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kirstenlouise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirstenlouise/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Fact (or, Fiction) 事实（亦或，虚构）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/360928) by [lmeden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden), [melnakuru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melnakuru/pseuds/melnakuru)



“He’ll only speak to you, sir.”

Mycroft avoided the steady gaze fixed on him through the one-way mirror. He glanced at the officer at the door and back down at his phone. He scrolled through the texts, not reading them, simply allowing the patterns to distract his eyes as he thought. 

“Fine.” He locked the phone and slipped it into his pocket. He pressed his palm into the curve of the umbrella handle at his side until he felt the wood and metal begin to strain. “I will speak with him tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir,” the officer replied, nodding and turning on his heel. 

“Wait,” Mycroft said, staring into the interrogation room. His stomach churned; he would have to ask Anthea – no, it was Medea today – to stop at the pharmacy. “Leave him in there. Let him be uncomfortable for a night.” It was the very least Mycroft could do.

Some indefinable emotion passed across the officer’s lips. “Very good, sir.” He turned, and this time Mycroft let him go. 

Inside the interrogation room, James Moriarty looked out at him and grinned. 

 

 

 

Mycroft could not prevent the keypad on the door from registering that it had been opened, but he could turn off the cameras on the room, so before he went inside that night, that was exactly what he did.

 

 

 

He left his umbrella, his jacket, his tie in the observation room. He kept his phone with him in his trouser pocket. It was heavy on his thigh as he punched in the keypad, listened to it buzz, and entered the room where Moriarty waited. 

 

 

 

“Here at last, here at last, the big bad brother is here at last,” Moriarty’s voice mocked him. 

Mycroft let the door click shut behind him. “I hear you will speak only to me,” he prompted. 

“Why _yes_!” Moriarty exclaimed, eyes flying comically wide. “How ever did you know? Ah wait, yes, I remember.” His voice lowered and his lips stretched into a nasty grin and he growled, “ _Everyone here works for you._ ”

“What do you want to say to me, _Jim_? You are in no position to play around.” Mycroft could be as vicious as any man, he was proud to say. He raked his gaze meaningfully over Moriarty’s thin form, clad only in undershirt and boxers, covered in cold sweat and sitting with a pool of water around his feet; remnants of an earlier torture. 

“Oh, I think I am,” purred Moriarty.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him and walked across the room, glancing at the mirrored wall as he moved (it was opaque, flawless, and Moriarty should have had no reason for staring at him through it so confidently earlier). Moriarty lifted himself from his seat with a smile as Mycroft approached, and his feet sloshed through the water on the floor as he moved. 

Mycroft stared at him, knowing well the power of his calm gaze. Moriarty blinked, and his smile faded. 

“I want to know about Sherlock,” he said, voice oddly vulnerable. 

And Mycroft said, “My brother,” slightly incredulous (and not at all surprised) that Moriarty had played him for a fool, raised his hopes that he would get some concrete information. He stamped down his pride and prepared himself for the haggling, but Moriarty’s face twisted and his mouth gaped, lips raw and red. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely contrite. Mycroft had only enough time for a blink before he continued. “You’re jealous, I should have known. You though I wanted to talk to you _for_ you, not about Sherlock, _oh_.” 

Mycroft was so startled by the toe of regret that was both genuine and ridiculous that he didn’t stop Moriarty’s hand when it lifted, long-fingered, and pressed itself to his cheek. He jerked away, and Moriarty frowned. 

“You must let me make it up you!” he exclaimed. Mycroft’s heart pounded; this had been a mistake, it was late, he didn’t have the energy to deal with Moriarty. He should have waited until the morning. Moriarty stepped closer, and Mycroft, belligerent, refused to step away. He pursed his lips and thought, tried to puzzle out Moriarty’s game (though he never played by the rules). 

Moriarty obviously did not believe in concepts like silence and time for thinking, though, because his face went very still and he said, “Mycroft, are you listening to me?” And he reached out and placed his other hand on Mycroft’s belt. 

Mycroft jerked, but Moriarty was too close, and it was far too late. His fingers twisted around the shell of Mycroft’s ear and his breath was hot on Mycroft’s cheek. His fingers twisted under the metal of Mycroft’s belt buckle, working it undone with practiced expertise. Moriarty pressed his cheek up against Mycroft’s as he twisted away, keeping him in place. 

His skin was hot, almost fevered, and it sent a chill through Mycroft. Moriarty’s hand slipped down, under layers of cloth, and Mycroft shivered. He brought his hands up and they dug into Moriarty’s arms.

Moriarty chuckled against his cheek, low and pleased, and Mycroft _shoved_ , sent him splashing back through the water and down into his chair. He twisted in his seat, eyes wide and sparking, and as Mycroft shifted his shoulders and stepped forward, Moriarty leaned towards him, lips parted and eager.

“I’m listening,” growled Mycroft. “But you have not said anything.”

“Neither have you,” Moriarty laughed. His hands reached out and grasped Mycroft’s hips, pulling him forward. 

 

 

There was no table in the room, so they used the back of the chair. Moriarty was bent over the back, fingers clenched around the smooth metal arms, two of Mycroft’s fingers flexing in the pucker of his arse as he strained and panted. Mycroft had not been able to coax a sound other than heavy breathing out of him so far. No moans, whimpers, or sighs. He found the prospect of them…tempting. 

Mycroft’s belt hung loose in its loops and his trousers sagged at his waist, unbuttoned to show his pants, erection straining against the thin fabric. Moriarty pushed back, drawing Mycroft’s fingers deep into himself, and hitched his hips. Mycroft stepped close, placing a hand on Moriarty’s back and pushing him down. 

Mycroft watched the edged of his profile, the flushed cheek and tip of his nose, the pink tips of his ears, and saw his mouth open, gape unfilled for an instant before words spilled. 

“Tell me about your brother,” he said, in a voice Mycroft had never heard him use before. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft mused, proud of his own relative self-containment. His brother’s soft hair came to mind, curling around the tips of his ears and cheekbones, the way he was always prone to snarl when petted, even now that they had long since grown up. 

His fingers came out of Moriarty’s arse with a pop. He tugged at his pants, struggling to pull them down over his cock He saw Moriarty’s grip tighten on the chair as he lined up his cock and grasped Moriarty. Slowly, carefully, as he wasn’t using lube and didn’t quite feel like explaining the blood away later, he pushed inside James Moriarty. 

Who hissed something that sounded like _yes_ and squirmed, working Mycroft’s cock deeper than he’d expected, and Mycroft exhaled heavily, grasping the back of the chair to brace himself, stop himself. Moriarty was infuriating, maddening, and he felt _incredible_.

Mycroft’s finger curled around his hipbone. “He’s a fool,” he said, barely breathless, because he never forgot a conversation. 

Neither did Moriarty, apparently. “Oh,” he sighed, bending and shoving himself farther back, just so, and he was _tight_.

“He doesn’t know how to,” and here Mycroft had to pause for breath, “distinguish fact from fiction.”

“Oh, yes,” Moriarty groaned, and the sound was far more pleasurable to Mycroft than he’d thought it would be. 

He breath caught and he gripped Moriarty tight, snapping his hips forward and shoving himself balls deep. 

The chair tottered as they fucked, Moriarty constantly on the edge of losing his balance as Mycroft shoved into him, fingers pressing dark bruises into his hips, deeper and deeper, Moriarty twisting on his cock, shifting and panting as if he couldn’t get enough, eyes shining darkly in the mirrored wall. 

As their gazes met, Moriarty licked his lips and smiled softly, and Mycroft closed his eyes as he came, shuddering, biting at his lips. After a long moment in which he felt Moriarty clench and go very still, Moriarty slid off of him, and Mycroft kept his eyes shut. He relished the blackness for a moment, felt a hand on his cheek once again, sliding to the back of his head and pulling him down. 

Moriarty was a brutal kisser, all tooth and tongue and constant motion, and though Mycroft kept his eyes closed, he was unable to imagine that Jim was anyone else. 

 

 

 

Mycroft didn’t bother cleaning himself up – he would have the tapes wiped later. He ran a hand through his hair and tucked his shirt into his trousers. Moriarty picked his sodden boxers off the floor, dangling them from on finger in distaste, and Mycroft reached out, pushing the door to the room open. 

He glanced back to see Moriarty gaping, possibly genuinely surprised, “You left the door unlo--” he moaned and then it clicked shut, and Mycroft punched in the code to seal it. 

 

 

 

He went back into the observation room for his jacket and tie and umbrella, and as he cleaned himself up, he saw that Moriarty stood with his back to the mirror, hands clasped behind his back, seeming as composed and pleased as if he had just been handed the keys to the city. Mycroft frowned. 

Then he phone buzzed in his pocket, so he fished it out, slipped the curled handle of his umbrella over his arm, and walked out. 

Moriarty settled into his chair, pushed his hair out of his eyes with a sticky hand, pressed his fingers to his lips, and smiled.


End file.
